Peter Thabit Jones
The Cemetery at Night
Blackness. The moon of old snow in the shadow of sky; its light blanched the white slabs, the white angels and the white Christs. My friends and I sneaked around dark Grafog Lane. On the Benmetts washing-line, the white shirts flapped like a warning. Blackness. A giggle. Ssh! We climbed on the wall and sat like midnight cats. The ghosts would come, see-through and as bright as the moon. The vampires would come like evil vicars. Blackness and a silence that would crack like glass. A giggle. Ssh! Who would be the first to run?
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